Chapter 1352: Memories(2)

Oh,by Great Stallion. He was making a complete botch of it.

He knew it, deep in his marrow. Here he was, making a fool of himself in the grand hall of the very people who had just shattered his iron chains.

His chest tightened as he carefully looked around the long table to see if anyone had noticed the disaster. Luckily, the lords and ladies were deep in their own hushed conversations, their eyes focused entirely on their neighbors or the rich food piled high upon their trenchers.

Except, of course, for the one person he had been trying not to embaress himself in front of, second to the king of course. He had thoroughly ruined his very first interaction with the prince of the realm, and he had done it with a mouthful of chewed mush.

Enkilae stared down at the wet, half-munched blob sitting right there on the pristine wood.

It was disgusting.

His mouth was already packed to the brim, so scooping the slimy lump back into his maw was out of the question. Perhaps he could drop it onto the floor?

He glanced down. The floor was a flawless, polished white marble, so clean it practically mirrored the torchlight. Worse still, there weren’t any half-wild hounds roaming the hall to quickly snap it up. What if dropping the food kindly provided by a monarch was taken as a grave, capital insult? Would they think he was spitting on their charity?

Frantic, he cut his eyes back toward the heir to the throne. His worst fears were realized: the black-haired brat in the fine red silken tunic was staring right at him.

But as Enkilae’s panicked gaze slid down the boy’s arm, he noticed the Prince wasn’t glaring in disgust. Instead, he was discreetly tapping a small, elegant finger against the rim of his own silver plate, pointing downward.

Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

Enkilae reached out with a trembling hand, quickly snatched up the damp blob from the table, and deposited it neatly onto the side of his plate. He raised his eyes, intending to mouth a silent, desperate thank-you to the boy. The Prince was a kind soul, no doubt, coming to the aid of a lost dog who didn’t know how to sit at a table.

But the moment Enkilae looked up, he saw the young heir lean over to whisper something directly into the King’s ear, his finger tilting subtly in Enkilae’s direction.

Enkilae went absolutely still, feeling exactly like a mouse trapped beneath the heavy paw of a tavern cat. Alpheo’s dark eyes trailed over, locking onto Enkilae for a few long, agonizing seconds. The King was undoubtedly thinking about how stupid and barbarous his dead friend’s brother truly was. Who knew? Maybe the monarch was already deeply reconsidering his earlier grand gestures toward the Uthahia.

If the King harbored such thoughts, however, he gave no outward sign. Instead, Alpheo simply looked down at his son and gave a single nod.

An instant later, the boy was on his feet. He whispered something to the little girl sitting at his right, clearly his sister, given the way she immediately tried to steal a honeyed pastry from his plate the moment his back was turned, and began strolling down the length of the hall. He walked with a quiet, easy grace, lightly slapping the shoulder of a scarred veteran whose face was mapped with old fire burns. The soldier took the hint, chuckling as he shifted down, and the young Prince slid effortlessly into the newly vacated seat.

Right beside Enkilae.

The ex-slave’s hands were shaking now. He was utterly shitting himself. He had no place in a magnificent hall like this, no more than a gutter-rat belonged in a lord’s grain-barn. He had been given his freedom, and that was a miracle; he would gladly take his people, go out into the new lands, and break his back tilling the dirt.

But he did not belong among princes, kings, queens, and high lords.

By the Stallion, this was Egil’s world, Enkilae thought, a sudden wave of bewilderment washing over him.

How his clumsy, willful, cowardly younger brother had ever managed to command the respect of such people was entirely beyond him. He still remembered the boy Egil had been before the world broke them apart. How had he done this?

"They are scared of you."

The voice was a quiet whisper, drifting from his left. It wasn’t the voice of a child, nor a grown man; it sat right on the crisp, sharp edge of adulthood. The heavy meaning of the words only settled into Enkilae’s mind a beat after he registered who had uttered them.

"What?" Enkilae blurted out after he swallowed his mouthful.

"Well... perhaps ’scared’ is the wrong word," the Prince murmured, turning his head so his side profile was visible. He looked remarkably like his father, possessing the same sharp, angular jawlines, though he had inherited his mother’s striking green eyes. The boy followed the trajectory of Enkilae’s wide stare, looking out over the hall. "Still... they are uncomfortable."

Enkilae looked past the boy and saw a giant of a man, a mountain of muscle with skin the color of a burnt egg, glance their way, offering a brief, solemn nod before returning to his trencher. Enkilae recalled that man’s name, at least. Jarza. It was hard to forget a man built like a siege tower and of coal-black hue.

"Why would they be uncomfortable around me?" Enkilae asked, the confusion bubbling out of his lips just as ungracefully as the food had done half a minute prior. "I am nobody."

"You are not a nobody," the Prince corrected gently, his words flowing as smooth and sweet as fresh peach juice. "You are Egil’s brother. There is not a soul in all of Yarzat who does not know the legend of the Butcher."

A named man, eh? Enkilae thought, a cold shiver running down his spine. Egil truly had gone all out in the south. And the Butcher? That wasn’t a title open to much kindly interpretation.

"But I am not him," Enkilae whispered fiercely, gripping his knees beneath the table. "I do not possess whatever he had. I do not think I can ever be of grand service to your father as my brother must have been."

"Nor does anyone expect you to be," the Prince replied, leaning back slightly against the high wooden chair. "Your brother was as deeply feared by his enemies as he was fiercely loved by his friends. You probably do not realize the immense weight you hold in my father’s and my uncle’s eyes. To them, you are a living piece of their past. You are their chance to relieve themselves of a five-winter’s old, guilt. A chance to redeem themselves, the best they can, in the eyes of a brother they lost."

"A dead one," Enkilae muttered, a sudden trace of bitterness tracing his tone. "A ghost who can no longer judge them, speak to them, or see them, for that matter."

Enkilae did not know why he was speaking so freely. There was just something about the boy, perhaps the easy, untroubled smile on his face or his entirely disarming demeanor , that made him open up. It didn’t feel like he was speaking to a royal heir who could have his life forfeit with a single, careless word.

It felt like talking to someone by a campfire.

"But he was still their friend," the Prince said softly, his green eyes locked onto Enkilae’s weathered face. "He was still my uncle in everything but blood. And the love they hold for him hasn’t faded with the dirt. They are just as uncomfortable with the ghost in this room as you are with the living, no doubt. They see him every time they look at your eyes."

What was he to say to that? Enkilae did not think there were even words to answer such a thing, let alone any that a dull-witted like him could conjure on the spot.

Yet, the heavy silence demanded something.

"I am... I am deeply thankful for all they have done for me and my tribe," Enkilae managed, the words feeling clumsy and thick in his mouth. "Please, reassure your father and your mother of that. Truly. But I am not a man worthy of further attention. Especially theirs."

"Well," Basil said, leaning his chin in his hand, a sharp, knowing glint in his mismatched eyes. "That is their prerogative, is it not?"

"I... I suppose so?"

"And it is my father’s especially. My mother, you see, never did hold your brother dearly," the boy added with a faint, wicked little smirk. He casually reached across the table, plucked a roasted mushroom from the scarred veteran’s vacated plate, and tossed it into his mouth.

The burnt man hardly reacted.

"She is probably the only soul in this castle who doesn’t mourn him. But honestly, Enkilae... I am far more interested in you right now, rather than what your face might cause my elders to recall."

Interested in me? Enkilae’s brow furrowed, a cold knot of apprehension tightening in his belly.

"I... I do not know of any way I might be of service to you," he said, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "I am no....."

Warrior?

Scholar?

’’I am no.....anything?’’

For a long, calculating moment, the young Prince simply stared at him. His eyes scanned Enkilae’s weathered skin, tracking the deep lines of hardship etched around his jaw, as if weighing the man on an invisible scale, wondering if there was indeed any practical use for him.

Then, a small, sharp smile broke across the boy’s face. He had found one.

"Stories," Basil said cleanly.

"What?"

"I want you to tell me stories," the Prince murmured, leaning closer, his voice dropping so the surrounding lords couldn’t catch the drift of it. "Your stories. I want to know about your life in bondage. The northern pens, the labor, the overseers, how the trade moves... I want to know everything you know, think and felt.Surely that you can manage?"

That , he could manage.Though he could still not understand why.

He made it a question.

The prince of Yarzat shrugged. ’’One day I’ll be king.’’ He said it matter-of-fact, as it was. ’’And when I’ll sit on my father’s and mother’s throne, I will have hundreds to listen to, each with their own bit, each with their own lie and interest. It is now that I should make my own opinion, while I can still ask. Big and small, rich or poor. There may be a lack of truth in one man, but in a thousand?There may be yet some to be found.’’